


To The Rhythm Of The War Drums

by mandatorily



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:01:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandatorily/pseuds/mandatorily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the world falling apart at the seams, Sam and Dean fall together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To The Rhythm Of The War Drums

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Don't fret, precious, I'm here.  
> Notes: Set early/mid Season 5. Title is from the same song the prompt is from, Pet by A Perfect Circle. Written for http://salt-burn-porn.livejournal.com/.

Dean watches Sam standing at the window, pale moonlight framing him like a halo. They’ve taken turns standing there all night, watching the sky over Detroit erupt with fire and brimstone as Hell’s army gathers for the last stand. It’s like some surreal, fucked up version of a giant citywide block party and the sounds are so loud, they can hear them from here.

They’re fifty miles outside the city limits, in an elegant family home that lost its family a week past. Castiel told them, as he laid down spells and talismans that would protect them from detection by angels or demons, that the family who had lived here had fought a fight of faith when Lucifer and his demons came for them. And for their trouble the parents had watched as Lucifer’s rotting vessel violated their daughters. Then, because they’d fought so strongly and clung so desperately to their faith in God, Lucifer had them all executed on the front lawn. That was the choice these days, as Lucifer and his army spread their filth across the land -- die fighting and bloody or live as a demon’s host for the rest of your miserable life.

Shaking himself, Dean comes back to the present just in time to see Sam’s forehead hit the windowpane. Each explosion, each eruption of fire in the sky is like a physical blow to Sam, a mantra playing out on his body in flinches and tense muscles. Sam blames himself for all this -- the destruction, the absolute pollution of all things good, as if the demons wouldn’t have found another way to release Hell on Earth if the Winchesters had been smarter, stronger.

Above everything Dean could be wishing for at this moment -- a miracle weapon to wipe out all the angels and demons in the world, a magic time machine to take them back to fix all their mistakes -- he wishes most that he could go back to a time when fixing Sam’s problems was as simple as drawing the younger boy into bed, pulling the covers over their heads and whispering sweet lies into Sam’s soft, unruly hair.

Getting up from the table, Dean stretches his arms over his head, joints and muscles popping, stretching, sweat sticking his clothes to his body, making him long for a cold shower. The planet had been gradually heating up since Lucifer started roaming from city to city and here, fifty miles from central command, the temperature barely dips below 100, even at night.

Sam doesn’t move as Dean fidgets around the room, checking salt-lines and ammo. He just stands there, framed in that perfect ray of moonlight, head pressed so hard against the glass it has to be painful. Dean clenches his fists against the urge to go and wrap his arms around Sam. It’s an urge he’s fought on and off their entire lives. Famine had been right about there being a gaping pit inside of Dean; he just hadn’t looked deep enough to see that the only thing keeping Dean going was the spark buried deep inside the pit that was his love for Sam.

He huffs out a breath, thinks _fuck it_ and does something, just this once, for himself. He’s been the obedient son, the good brother, the perfect soldier, always something for someone else, never bothering to think what he might want. Or what he might need. A particularly loud explosion, like canon fire, spurns him into action and before he’s even sure he’s made the decision, he’s across the room, pulling Sam away from the window and into his arms. “Come on, Sammy. Standing there watching it happen won’t change anything.”

Sam buries his head in Dean’s shoulder, hot tears burning a path down Dean’s neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. “It’s like I can feel him, Dean. Feel his joy. His sick, twisted sense of absolute happiness. He doesn’t know where I’m at, he can’t find me, but he’s throwing his emotions at me, taunting me, wanting me to feel his . . . elation. He wants me to feel what he feels as he destroys the world. It’s like I can hear their screams inside my bones, Dean. The screams of the innocent people left in that city, the ones we should be trying to save. Instead we’re . . . I’m . . . Just hiding here, like some fucking pussy, afraid of my own shadow. What right do I have to safety, when . . .” he trails off, sniffs loudly, flails his arms around, trying to encompass everything going on around them. “When all this is my fault?”

Fighting his own tears, Dean cups Sam’s face, stares him down. “I’ve told you over and over again, Sammy. This isn’t anyone’s fault. None of us. They’d have come to this conclusion with or without us. It was inevitable.” But Dean knows Sam’s not listening, he never listens, no matter how many times Dean preaches the same, tired, sermon.

They stand there for minutes -- or hours -- Dean’s hands on Sam’s face, Sam’s hands fisted in Dean’s shirt, eyes boring holes in each other’s skulls until another explosion, this one strong enough to rock the whole house, knocks them to the floor.

Landing in a pile of tangled limbs, they stay still and silent, as more explosions shake the house, the distant sky over Detroit fire-bright, in spite of the fact that it’s four in the morning. Dean knows he should move, remove the temptation of Sam’s body so close at hand, but he can’t. Can even admit to himself that he doesn’t want to fight the temptation anymore. He closes his eyes, focuses on the feel of Sam’s large, warm body beside him. It’s a warmth that says family and home and safe and _mine_ and in spite of the stifling heat filling up the room, Dean gravitates toward it, wanting nothing more than to wrap himself in Sam’s warmth and shut out the rest of the world. Forever.

He’s almost asleep when he feels a tentative hand on his stomach, callused palm splayed across the exposed skin where his shirt’s hitched up. His breath catches in his throat, nearly choking him, stomach muscles tensing reflexively. The nails attached to that hand dig into the soft skin of his lower belly for just a second before the hand is jerked away.

Dean has a decision to make and very little time to make it. He can feign sleep, pretend it didn’t happen. Let Sam think that he didn’t notice it and things can stay the way they’ve been, nothing changing or becoming awkward or forced or more fucked up than it already is. Or he can acknowledge it. The tension that’s always been there between them, simmering under the surface like an inferno waiting to explode. More explosions from the direction of Detroit make the ground tremble, the vibrations traveling through the floorboards and into their bodies. Dean thinks it might be a sign.

“Sammy?” One word, ambiguous, and still this thing, whatever it is, could go either way. Dean’s never been hesitant about anything before, but nothing has ever meant this much to him before, either.

“Yeah, Dean?”

Dean inhales deep, holds it inside his lungs for ten heartbeats, leans over and lets the air out in a rush against Sam’s ear. Sam shivers all the way to his toes and Dean feels it like another explosion making his heart beat fast, his pulse skittering erratically, ears ringing with the blood surging through his body. Then Sam’s hand is back against the skin of Dean’s stomach, but this time he pushes under Dean’s shirt, thumb catching on the hem, dragging the fabric up and over Dean’s head.

No going back now, Dean thinks, right before shoving Sam down on the floor and straddling his hips. He’s surprised to feel the sharp, long line of Sam’s dick straining against his own. Shocked almost, that Sam seems to want this as much as he does. Laying his hands flat on Sam’s stomach, he doesn’t move, just says, “You’re sure, Sammy?”

Sam sits up quick, hard stomach muscles clenching under Dean’s hands and kisses Dean fast, teeth clashing, drawing blood. “So fucking sure, Dean. Just. Stop thinking and fuck me. Make me stop thinking. Make me forget.” He lays back down, surrendering himself to Dean, trusting Dean to make the world right again.

Dean’s surprised he doesn’t faint as the rest of the blood leaves his head to pool in his dick and after that he doesn’t remember what happens to the rest of their clothes, because suddenly they’re both just naked. There will be time, later, he hopes, for exploring and learning and cherishing, but right now he’s desperate for Sam.

With the last vestiges of sanity left in his blood-starved brain, Dean searches the room for something -- anything -- they could use for lube and comes up blank. He’s about to hoist himself from the floor for a frantic search of the house when Sam grabs Dean’s hand, sucks three fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digits, coating them with spit. “Do it. It’s enough.”

Nodding once, Dean spreads Sam’s thighs, bent knees on either side of his head. Sam’s beautiful like this, Dean thinks, and can’t even berate himself for being such a fucking girl about it. He slips one finger in, watching his brother’s face for reaction, for the tiniest sign that he should stop or slow down, but all Sam does is bite his lip and say, “Quit treating me like I’m going to break, Dean. Just. Get the fuck on with it already.” Another finger follows the first, scissoring, opening Sam up and wide and _for him_ and Dean thrusts his fingers in deeper, not willing to hurt Sam no matter how badly they both want this to go faster. Spitting in his other hand, he works himself to the rhythm of his fingers in Sam’s ass, slicking himself up, fighting the orgasm building, tightening. He exhales, praying for control, and slips his fingers out positioning the head of his dick at Sam’s entrance. Sam’s hands grip Dean’s hips, fingernails digging into his hipbones and Dean knows he’ll have bruises there in the shape of Sam’s nails for days to come.

A slight push and he’s in -- warm, tight and perfect wrapped around his dick. “God, Sammy. So fucking tight. We should wait a minute. Let you get used to this--”

Sam cuts him off, gripping Dean’s hips tighter, urging him on and Dean slides in a bit more. “What did I fucking say, Dean? Make me fucking forget anything but this. But us.” The pressure of Sam’s hands on his hips, Sam’s ass encasing his dick, it’s all too much and Dean presses forward in one, long thrust, buried as deep as possible inside Sam.

Sam starts canting his hips up, urging Dean to thrust. Almost instantly they find a rhythm together, natural and perfect and so fucking good Dean’s sure he won’t last long.

Slipping a hand between them, Dean fists Sam’s dick, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, fast and rough. They’re face to face, eyes locked, each challenging, as if they’re daring the other to look away. But if it meant his life, Dean wouldn’t be able to look away from the sight of Sam beneath him, Dean’s name tumbling from Sam’s lips with each inward thrust, like a battle hymn, a marching rhythm of war drums.

A final thrust, their bodies shifting against each other and Dean comes, face falling to the crook of Sam’s neck, Sam’s lips at Dean’s ear, whispering things they’ll both swear were never said or heard come morning. Two swift tugs later and Sam follows Dean, warm come coating their stomachs.

Grabbing one of their shirts, Dean cleans them up, Sammy’s eyes fluttering closed under Dean’s uncharacteristically gentle hands. When he’s finished, he settles himself beside Sam, watching over the rise and fall of Sam’s chest as the sky begins to lighten for morning over Detroit. Maybe their last morning on Earth. Maybe the last morning _of_ Earth.

Another, particularly loud, violent explosion rips across the sky, jerking Sam awake. Dean leans in, kissing the soft skin behind Sam’s ear, and whispers the sweet lies that always worked when they were children, “Go back to sleep, Sammy. Everything’s fine. I’m here.”


End file.
